


Go Fish

by notlucy



Series: MCU Kink Bingo - NotLucy [14]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Airports, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkwardness, Embarrassment, Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 08:59:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17363006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notlucy/pseuds/notlucy
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man stuck in an airport, in possession of an iPhone, must open Tinder.





	Go Fish

Bucky's flight is never getting off the ground. They're into the third hour of their interminable delay, and he's started to question whether or not this is somehow, karmically, his fault. As if the universe knows that he came to Chicago on the cheapest possible flight to see his sister marry Some Dude He Barely Knows, and now it's punishing him for being such a grump by leaving him stranded in O'Hare, hungover and desperate, the day after the wedding.

All that misery, plus the fact that his headphones are broken. Which, granted, is his fault. He’d been packing up his things after making it through the security line, and hadn’t noticed the earbuds fall to the ground until they were crunched under his boots. Being as there’s no fucking way he’s paying airport prices for a new pair, he’s been stuck, resigned to his boredom, ever since.

Hour one wasn’t so bad. He’d bought a magazine and flipped through it in an attempt to save the battery in his phone. Now, he officially knew more than he’d ever wanted to know about Tony Stark and Pepper Potts’ nuptials, as there had been a sixteen-page exclusive on the entire affair.

Hour two? Welp, he’d spent twelve bucks on a shitty turkey sandwich with damp lettuce which he’d taken two bites of before forgoing it for fries.

He’s missing those fries now, in hour three, his ass sweating against the molded plastic seat as he succumbs to the last resort of the glum gay traveler: Tinder.

It's a pointless endeavor. He realizes this. Anyone he comes across isn't going to be prime hookup material, being as he's leaving Chicago, and he hasn't bothered to turn off location services. But whatever: he's bored, and he occasionally enjoys sitting in silent judgment of people he will never meet.

Not that he’s picky. It’s only that ninety-five percent of the dudes on Tinder look like pretentious dicks that he’d never want to date, much less waste a one-night stand on. But he prefers the swipe of Tinder to the cascade of Grindr, and he’s not old enough for Scruff. (Plus, he’s not looking to get dick pics in an airport.) So it is what it is, and he starts swiping.

Shirtless and making a duckface? Left.

Mirror selfie with the flash on? Left.

White guy with dreadlocks? Yeah, left.

Douchey goatee? Everything you own in a box to the left, sir.

Ooh, though, cute face holding a cat? Right swipe for you, buddy. In Bucky’s experience, a guy who likes cats is probably a good person. Men cuddling puppies and dogs are harder to gauge. Sure, Bucky loves a pooch, but it’s impossible to tell if a dude is genuinely into them or just posing with his cousin’s canine because Fido makes for better matches.

Cute Face gives way to an obviously fake profile. Bucky rolls his eyes. He's not into being catfished, and this profile has I-bought-these-pictures-and-will-murder-you-in-a-bathtub written all over it. Blue eyes, blond hair, a perfectly trimmed beard, and a sweet, unassuming smile? Absolutely not. Plus, dude's dressed like a lumberjack out of Bucky's wet dreams and/or an Abercrombie catalog in the early aughts. (Which are interchangeable, most days.)

Hard-left, catfish. Hard. Fucking. Left.

“Wow,” comes a voice from his right. “Not even a second glance, huh?”

Bucky turns his head, ready to be annoyed and possibly even give a dirty look to the snooper.

Except:

Blue eyes.

Blond hair.

A perfectly trimmed beard.

(And if he’s being honest? Kind of a shit-eating smile.)

It’s him. Abercrombie Catfish. Sure, he’s in jeans and a button-down instead of flannel, but it’s unmistakably him.

Fucking location services.

Fucking _algorithms_.

“Uh,” Bucky manages, his cheeks going hot as a wave of humiliation washes over him. “I uh…”

“It’s cool,” says Catfish, chuckling like a dick. “I shouldn’t have been peeking.”

No, he shouldn’t have. Also: who says peeking? _Also_ , also: who the hell is this guy to be looking in the first place, much less passing judgment on Bucky's, uh…judgment. If Bucky were a different sort of person, he might have told him what he thought of the intrusion. But he is as God made him, and instead briefly wonders if it's possible to spontaneously self-combust from embarrassment.

“I uh,” he repeats. “I gotta—”

Nothing. He’s ‘gotta’ nothing, and Catfish knows it. But Bucky can’t just sit there next to him, with his Abercrombie-and-tits physique and his knowing smile. So he reaches for his backpack and mutters something about needing to piss before scooting off in that direction. (Which, why did he do that, exactly? Is he a toddler? Does he need to let the handsome stranger know that he can use the potty all by himself?)

When he reaches the bathroom, he splashes some water on his face, all the while mumbling about what an asshole that fucking catfish is. This earns him a strange look from the man next to him. Bucky stammers an apology, then retreats into a bathroom stall, where he sits fully-clothed on the toilet and waits for the sweet mercy of death to take him because he doesn't think he can go back out there, he really doesn't.

And the thing about it is? He's actually pretty angry with ol' Catfish. But then, he's always been good at being pissed off. It's the giving voice to his frustrations he has trouble with; usually, he turns his temper inward, raging against his external good-naturedness. It's going to give him a coronary one day, he's pretty sure.

So, he sits in the stall, berating himself until he can no longer put off the fact that it’s getting close to their rescheduled boarding time, and he doesn’t want to miss the flight.

The universe shows him a small kindness in that, by the time he gets back to the gate, the boarding process has begun, and Catfish is nowhere to be seen. Bucky hops in line and hands over his pass before heading down the jetway. He starts the slow, interminable shuffle towards his middle seat, which is his punishment for being one of the last people to purchase a ticket.

There's row eight…nine…he looks ahead, and his heart plummets.

Blue eyes.

Blond hair.

No smile this time, though, as Catfish has his head down, looking at his phone.

“Please don’t be row twelve,” he mutters.

It’s fucking row twelve.

The universe is a crusty Kleenex.

Bucky puts off the inevitable as long as he can, dawdling while he sticks his bag in the overhead bin, before trying to play it cool as he approaches.

“Uh, hey?” he says, then clears his throat.

Catfish looks up, confused at first, then pleased, which only serves to annoy Bucky further. "Hey," he says, smiling.

“That’s my…I’m sitting there.”

The smile widens, and Catfish gets to his feet. Bucky slides past him, not thinking about the fact that he smells pretty good, and that he’s a couple inches taller than him, and that he probably gives good hugs.

“Thanks,” he mutters, juggling his book and his hoodie as he plonks down next to the sullen-looking girl in 12A wearing an NYU sweatshirt. (She has giant Beats headphones covering her ears; Bucky is unaccountably jealous.)

Catfish sits back down, and Bucky realizes their predicament. They’re both broad-shouldered guys; try as they might, there’s no way the tiny airplane seats are wide enough to accommodate them as they hunch and squeeze into their respective allotments. Bucky hopes 12A doesn’t mind that he’s taken a scant few inches of her space. Shit, she’s little. She won’t even notice.

As the final few passengers board, Bucky keeps his gaze fixed forward, lest he accidentally making eye-contact with Catfish. The flight attendants traverse the aisle a few times before beginning their pre-flight spiel, which he finds extra annoying on delayed flights. Like, they can’t have the ground crew run through the safety procedures during the three hours they’d been forced to wait at the gate? Probably there are laws against it, but whatever. Delta should hire him and let him make the rules.

In lieu of leading a regulation revolution, however, he flips through the in-flight magazine. But he does it _aggressively._ He’ll show them what he thinks of their oxygen mask procedures, damn it.

Catfish, meanwhile, plays with his phone for the entire presentation. Bucky's ninety percent sure it's not in airplane mode—he knows this because turnabout is fair play, and he's glanced over at the screen about twenty times so far. Seriously, though, if the plane goes down because Catfish can't stop sending last-minute texts, Bucky's gonna be really annoyed.

(Sadly, they’re airborne without incident twenty minutes later, so he has no cause to go after Catfish in the afterlife. Probably for the best.)

Bucky lets out a yawn when they hit cruising altitude, leaning against the headrest and trying not to think about how many greasy, germy heads have rested against that same spot. He’s just about asleep, in fact, when Catfish pipes up.

“So uh, can I ask you a question?”

At first, Bucky doesn’t think Catfish is talking to him. When nobody else responds, though, he cracks one eye open and raises a brow. “What, me?”

“Yeah, you.”

“Uh, okay.”

“I was just wondering—why’d you swipe left?”

Ugh, _Catfish_. Come on! Who even asks that? Bucky resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Same reason I swipe left on anyone. I didn't find you attractive." The statement is patently false and is, in fact, a little bit mean, but it has been a very long day, and his temper is making a rare surface showing.

Catfish looks crestfallen, though, and Bucky feels instantly guilty.

“Ah,” he says. “Got it. Thanks.”

“That’s—I’m lying,” Bucky blurts, his conscience getting the better of him, despite Catfish’s bad behavior. “I just mean…” he shakes his head. “Honestly, it’s dumb.”

“I’ll take dumb over ugly.”

Bucky fights back a smile. He won’t give Catfish that, even if the guy’s slightly more endearing than he’d expected. “I uh, thought your profile was fake.”

“What?” Catfish replies with an incredulous laugh.

“Your pictures! They look professional. Like…stock photos, or whatever. People sometimes use stuff like that to set up fake profiles, and I didn’t…shit, dude, take some mirror selfies like the rest of us, alright?”

Catfish looks shellshocked. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“I. Well. Thanks?”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m Steve, by the way,” he says, offering his hand at the awkward angle necessitated by their respective positions.

"Bucky." He says it, and then he waits for the laugh. The quirked brow. The incredulous expression and endless questions.

Instead, Steve pumps his hand twice and flashes him another big smile. “Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

“Yeah, you too,” he says, and finds that he means it. Enough to ask a follow-up question, anyway. “Are you from Chicago?”

“Nah, I was in town for a conference. How about you?”

“Wedding,” he says. “I live in Brooklyn.”

Steve lights up like a kid on Christmas, which is charming—plenty of people live in Brooklyn, yet you’d think Bucky was the first he’d ever met. “No shit! What part?”

“The bottom of the slope that is Park Slope,” he says, then quickly clarifies. “So, not the asshole part.”

“I’m in Red Hook,” Steve says. “The asshole part.”

“Shit—” he stammers, neck going hot.

“But I’m kind of an asshole,” he continues. “And I grew up there, so I think it’s allowable.”

“I grew up in Indiana,” Bucky says, like the cornpone hayseed that he is.

If Steve thinks less of him for his humble origins, he doesn’t say, just smiles and stretches one of his long legs into the aisle. “So, what brought you to New York?”

That’s about the start of it between the two of them, their conversation flowing naturally for the rest of the flight. The topic shifts from school, to work, to weekend pastimes and lifelong dreams. Steve is an architect out of necessity, working for a corporate firm to pay off the student loan debt he says he doesn’t like to think about. His ultimate ambition, however, is to be a sickly, starving artist living in a garret in a small French town. He would also like to own forty cats. Bucky, conversely, graduated debt-free because his parents are rich, and now works for a non-profit that provides funding for kids who need prosthetics. When it comes to his future, he thinks maybe he’d like to be a social worker, but he’s not sure.

Things get flirty when they discuss their living situations—Bucky has two roommates, while Steve lives alone, which is both sexy _and_ suspicious.

“No roommates?” Bucky teases. “Not possible.”

“I mean, I _had_ one. Until about four months ago…” he trails off with an awkward shrug and a hand gesture that’s clearly meant to convey ‘eh-what-ya-gonna-do?’

“Oh,” Bucky says, realization dawning. “You uh…you guys broke up?”

“Yup.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. That’s uh…we’d been together since college. But he’s with someone else now, and so I thought I ought to get back out there.”

“Hence, Tinder?”

“I had a friend take pictures,” he admits, the tips of his ears going red. “She’s a professional, and I wanted to look nice. I thought people would like that.”

Bucky nods. “Ah.”

“I guess I didn’t know what to expect. Everything’s so casual, and everyone wants to show me their dicks which, look, that’s fine. I can appreciate the effort, but maybe let me ask first? Flirt a little?”

“No unsolicited dick picks,” Bucky says. “Got it.”

Steve’s mouth twitches, and he shrugs. “Solicited, however—”

“Don’t push your luck, nosy.”

“I’m sorry about that,” he says immediately. “I saw you had the app open, and then I saw you see me, and I figured, what the hell. You’re so—” he smiles, hand moving in the general vicinity of Bucky’s torso.

“What?”

“Cute.”

There’s that blush again—Bucky can feel it creeping up his cheeks. “Yeah?”

“Oh, come on. You know you are.”

“I’m not _hideous_.” (Because, okay, Bucky’s not vain, but he does own a mirror.)

The response makes Steve laugh—a big, full-throated thing that’s more than the dumb line deserves. Bucky smiles anyway.

“Alright, not hideous,” Steve says. “Wanna play twenty questions?”

 

* * *

 

By the time the plane touches down in New York, Bucky has discovered quite a few things about Steve “Catfish” Rogers.

His favorite color is blue (but a _royal_ blue, not some pedestrian periwinkle).

His favorite food is pasta all’Arrabbiata (because he can make it for himself, and it’s spicy, which are the two things he considers when considering food).

His favorite team is the Mets (which is a relief, Bucky wouldn’t have continued speaking to him otherwise).

His underwear, on that particular day, is navy (not because Bucky saw it, but because he asked).

Bucky has also discovered, through his questioning, Steve’s phone number, which he plans to use at his earliest possible convenience.

Steve, however, has one more trick up his sleeve, and as they unbuckle their seatbelts and shamble into the aisle, he looks over with a shrug. “So,” he says, all casual-like. “You wanna split a cab?”

Being as they’re practically going to the same place, Bucky is forced to agree.

When the driver asks for their destination, though, and Steve gives his address while Bucky stays silent? Yeah, sure, that’s implying something. He can only hope that Steve’s as good at picking up hints as he is at laying them down.

Several hours later, watching Steve’s ass move as he crosses his bedroom to dispose of the condom they’d used, Bucky decides that the end result is absolutely worth his earlier humiliation.

Two years after that, hearing Steve tell the story at their wedding reception? Shit, Bucky’s blushing, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, pals! I signed up for Kink Bingo again this year, because in addition to all the looooooooong stories I'm working on, I wanted to be able to yeet some one-shots into the world without too much fuss. This one fills the "humiliation" square, and was inspired by [this Tweet](https://twitter.com/WHlTELION/status/1080967780458000385). So thanks to the poor OP on that one. 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [notlucy](https://notlucy.tumblr.com). I'm also [notlucysays](https://twitter.com/notlucysays) on Twitter, [notlucy](https://notlucy.dreamwidth.org/) on Dreamwidth, and [notlucy](https://www.pillowfort.io/notlucy) on Pillowfort.


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